


Road to Rider

by SenjuMizusaya



Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Adventure, Angst and Feels, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragon Riders, F/M, Fem!Eragon, Female Eragon, Friendship, Gen, Genderswap, Language, Multi, Politics, Pre-Canon, Progressively Dark, Rebirth, Rule 63, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-10-20 22:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10672461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenjuMizusaya/pseuds/SenjuMizusaya
Summary: In which Eragon finds himself receiving a better chance to save the world, at the cost of his own magic kidnapping him and placing him in an other person who lived more than a century ago.And so, as a young girl of ten winters, Eragon has travelled to Ilirea to follow the customs of these times. She did not expect an other Dragon to hatch for her, nor was she prepared to befriend a very young and curious Brom. Least of all did she expect an arrogant, nosy young Rider by the name Morzan to start meddling.She just hoped Galbatorix would make his appearance soon, because she had a duty to fulfill.





	1. The Most Successful Hijack Of Times

**Author's Note:**

> I do, in no way, own the Inheritance Cycle series. They belong to Christopher Paolini^^

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is set as an AU, where Eragon has failed to defeated Galbatorix and managed to cast himself back in time, into an other person, to change the past and future.  
> Please note that this will most likely be the story with the slowest build I've written so far, so the adventure/action etc won't come during the first chapters.

Eragon had many things to say. Most of them were apologies, to Saphira, Arya, Brom, Nasuada and Roran and everybody else. Apologizing for failing, for helplessly staring as everybody around him was bound to Galbatorix and he couldn't do anything to stop the King. The rest he wanted to say were curses. Eragon hated it. He hated that his training had been for naught, that he couldn't live up to the Varden's efforts, that he was on the floor staring up at Galbatorix and that it wasn't the other way around. 

The tared scorched and charred, curdling ink in his veins. 

He glared, lifeless but stubborn, saw Murtagh's aristocratic profile and morbid darkness within his silver eyes. Madness. Tortured to madness. His heart stung for his half-brother. 

He turned his deep eyes to the floor, previously spotless and polished and now stained with crimson blood, both fresh and drying. His dark brows knit and he felt the defiant curls of his chestnut hair sticking to his forehead. He wasn't sure whether it was from the blood or sweat, but he wasn't keen on finding out. 

Scorching frustration coursed through his veins, like burning magma through a tunnel, and his fingers itched to move and punch but _couldn't_. He could feel his magic buzzing just underneath his skin, yet he wasn't able to access it. Not since Galbatorix had uttered the Name. Eragon closed his dark eyes, feeling and thinking and trying to understand how it had all ended like this. Hate welled up for the King, stronger than ever before. 

The surge of power -hot and cold, sweepingly fast yet steady like a river down a mountainside, and so so _strong_ \- that followed was unlike anything the Rider had felt before. 

 

* * *

 

Darkness enveloped Eragon in a comforting, warm embrace like a blanket in a safe home. Distant voices murmured and chattered idly in the background, as if in an other room, and their tones were pleasant and warm, surrounding him in the warmth of his cocoon. 

He had a headache. A pounding one. 

His memories were a confused, jumbled mess that he did not know what to make of. He remembered being Eragon Shadeslayer, a farm-boy from Carvahall, who found an egg in the Spine and became a Rider. However, other distorted memories told him that this body he was somehow residing in belonged to an other Eragon. A girl about ten winters, living in a time of Dragon Riders where Galbatorix was still unknown and there was no unrest of war. Eragon Haroldsdaughter.

Eragon clutched his -her?- head, tangling his fingers in the thick locks of hair. _Not real._ This was just a dream, a desperate attempt to shake and reject reality. His -no,  _her_ \- mind flashed to Murtagh, Elva, Saphira and Arya. What about them? What had come of them, why was he - _she_ \- here? Why was this happening?

His - _her_ \- mind probed, searching for the familiar bond shared with the sapphire Dragon. Nothing. There was nothing. Not even a flimsy shell of the barricades around his - _her_ \- mind remained. He - _she_ - could feel the magic in herself, in a chasm somewhere deep inside, but it was almost as if it had yet to be awakened. Yet to be touched. 

The surge of power, the sudden new memories and lives- what was going on? Could it be- _could it be-_

Eragon's eyes snapped to the wooden door of the dimly lit room as the doorknob was pushed down, creaking open. A woman -the girl's mother, Arina, she recognized- stood in the doorway with a bowl of steaming soup. Her auburn curls were up in an old fashioned bun that was in a slight disarray, as if she had nervously combed her fingers through her hair multiple times. She smiled benevolently, her amber eyes crinkling. 

_Could it be that this was her second chance?_

Eragon blinked, stifling a groan as she managed to sit upright. The warm, delicately sewn blanket was bunched around her waist, hiding her legs (which she vaguely remembered being a bit bony) and feet from her. She figured it was better that way, the time-traveler wasn't ready to see them yet. 

 _She could stop Galbatorix this time, she could save everyone._   _Even if she somehow was someone else in one way or another, she'd make sure there was a better future._

Arina stepped towards her, placing the steaming broth on the masterfully carved nightstand next to the bed. The skirts of her pale lavender dress rustled, and Eragon noticed the intricate black embroideries adorning the neckline and flaring sleeves. It was one of Arina's favorite dresses. 

_The question was, of course, **how**._

"Are you feeling better, Eragon? You have been unconscious for two whole days," she laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, golden eyes holding so much worry and love that Eragon felt a pang of guilt for accidentally shanghaiing herself into an other person. She had the sinking feeling she would be stuck there for a very long while. 

"What happened, mother?" The girl asked, and almost choked when her voice was that of a child's again. She hoped that her question would fit in with the past events. The Shadeslayer distantly remembered that she had been running down the street towards a park, but tripped. Eragon assumed she had hit her head. She had never been very good at lying, but she prayed she could pull this off successfully. The child's distorted memories certainly made it easier, and it seemed she was quite adept at lying as well. "My head hurts."

"Oh, you're so _careless_. I have told you so many times that a proper lady does not sprint like a boy down the street, shoving people to the side. It was only to have been expected that you'd fall and suffer a concussion." Arina's abrupt change to scolding-mode did not catch Eragon by surprise, and she nervously fidgeted with the hem of her white nightgown. 

"I need to use the facilities, mother." She blurted out, and found herself surprised at how formal she sounded. Her new father-who-wasn't-actually-her-father was a successful merchant, and opportunist, who had become wealthy over the past twelve years. She figured it made sense he wanted her and the family to talk like the others from this class did. Far from nobles, of course, but rich enough that Eragon would have to worry about what the others thought. She refrained form scowling. 

"Of course. Do not forget your soup, child." Arina gave her a stern look, leaving no room for any possible arguments, and Eragon found herself nodding. The beautiful woman left and the young girl took a moment to prepare herself for the sight that would greet her when she threw the blankets of her. The soft duvet hit the ground next to her bed. 

Oh. Okay. 

They were pale, a little bony, and any ten years old's average legs. 

Eragon hadn't lost her marbles yet, at least. She could deal with this, they reminded her a little of the ones she had run on when she had been a kid. Her curly head hit the pillow again, and she stared up at roof. Saphira would never let her live this one down.

 _Saphira_. She almost lurched at the frigidly cold realization. _Saphira Saphira Saphira-_ Her beautiful dragon didn't exist yet. Perhaps in an egg, perhaps not even _that_ yet. For a brief moment she felt like giving up. Like throwing the window open and greeting the winds head on with a fall to death. _Saphira_. How could she live without the blue dragon? 

And then, she realized Saphira wasn't dead. She was far from dead- she had yet to live. 

Eragon could live with that. The pain in her heart eased a little, and she gasped for a ragged breath. She needed to do something, or she'd never give up and she'd stay there, wallowing in self-pity. 

Her feet hit the cold floor, almost halting her movements, but she refused to halt her movements. If she did, she feared she would just fall back into her bed and postpone the inevitable. Facing one's own change and _seeing_ it, was something she was not looking forwards to. 

One foot before the other. Left, then right. The mahogany door to her own bathroom came closer with every step, and when her small hand met the metal doorknob she faltered. Then she resolved to push it open with more confidence than she actually possessed. The tiles of the bathroom were a polished white; nice to look at, but not of the marble that the nobles would possess. A bathing tube stood in one corner, and a large mirror above a cupboard containing a formidable amount of oils, creams and others stuff that past-Eragon didn't have any clue of what to do with. 

She locked the door behind her, heading towards the other end of the clean room. The body length mirror didn't have a scratch on its smooth surface, framed with an intricately carved bronze material. Eragon stared at the reflection that peered back at her.

The past-Rider was reminded of how she had looked when she had been a ten year old boy. She still possessed the same curls, now longer and cascading down her back, only was the shade of her hair a bit lighter than before and with a slight auburn tint to it, and more tamable. Her skin wasn't as tanned as it had been the last time she was ten, due to a lack of working on the fields, but the shape of her face was familiar. Her chin might be a bit sharper, and her ears a bit different, but she couldn't distinguish too many dissimilarities. The only startling difference were her eyes, which had previously been dark and intense, were now the same shade of deep whiskey color as her mothers. She twirled once, a bit melancholically, and the nightgown ballooned a bit around her legs.

It felt so clean. _She_ felt so clean. As if she hadn't been lying in a puddle of unidentified blood mere moments ago, sweating and internally cursing and hating. 

Well then. She could say that this had, by far, been the most successful hijack she had ever committed. 

* * *

Not even two months later, Eragon found herself wide awake in her bed. In just a few hours, she would be leaving to touch the Dragon eggs in Ilirea. The customs of these times were something Eragon found herself growing fond of. Not all of them, of course. She couldn't deny that while women didn't have equal rights in the future she came form either, it was a little worse now. One came of age a year earlier too, and Eragon found herself very fond of the yearly tradition of celebrating the July Festivities; toasting to friendship and loyalty. 

And, once a year, every child at the age of ten would travel to the Great City and touch the Dragon eggs, hoping one would hatch for them. This was very rare, of course, and Eragon was aware that no Dragon was going to hatch for her since only  _her Saphira_ was the right one. 

That didn't mean she hoped to catch a glimpse of a young Galbatorix and stop him before he could go all Coo-Coo Bananas, however. Eragon knew that in the current time he was still innocent, but if push came to shove and the only way to prevent the Fall was by killing no him, then Eragon wouldn't hesitate. Then there was the case of he Forsworn, of course, but Eragon had decided that if Galbatorix was no threat, so was the immediate danger since they would never exist.

For a moment, her mind flickered to Murtagh. If the forsworn never existed, would it mean her half-brother wouldn't either? Some would call her selfish, but it made her resolve waver significantly. Eragon wanted to save those close to her, save the entire world, but at the cost of someone so dear to her? Then again, she didn't seem to have been very dear to him in the very end. The past-Rider wanted to save him from that... She still had plenty to contemplate over. 

Eragon glanced at the mahogany grandfather clock next to the door, leisurely ticking on while the world may very well turn on its head. 

Half and hour left before they would come and 'rouse her from her sleep'. She dragged her fingers through her light-brown tresses, a futile attempt to untangle them before her mother came with the brush. Eragon preferred to keep her hair in a braids or a simple bun, keeping it from her face. Her mother begged to differ. Nice hair had to be flaunted. 

Outside, the birds were chirping merrily, their song tittering through the air and into her room together with the smell of freshly baked pastries. The maid, Mira, must've prepared breakfast, then. Eragon turned to the side, staring at the white-and-silver patterned tapestry taunting her. Outside, merchants started organizing the markets, a pleasant bustle of sounds, colors and smells. There was a pleasant feeling blooming in her chest. She had never lived in such peacefully times before. 

The brunette tossed the blanket to the side, the summer heat suffocating her and making her skin feel positively radiant with warmth. She'd have to take a bath. Suddenly, she was immensely grateful that the house was located near a spring, supplying them with  a steady stream of water. Most others had to trek to the nearby lake. 

While Carvahall would always be her home, the city of Furnost had grown on her as well. The dry, warm winds that blew from the Hadarac Desert were comforting during spring and autumn, though absent during the cold months of winter, and a downside during summer. It was situated close to Tüdosten Lake, its calm waters providing a plentiful growth and verdant landscapes. A last strip of lush green before the sands of the desert. 

The white sheet suddenly felt unbearably hot against her skin, and Eragon slipped out of bed with more haste than necessary. She scurried towards the bathroom. The Shadeslayer could hear her youngest brother's happy shouts from downstairs, indicating that the young child was wide awake despite the early hour. 

Arina wouldn't be as happy, Eragon knew.

Iander was a happy child, the opposite of the oldest son Leneor, who was quite possibly the worst sibling Eragon could've wished for. He was only eight, but possessed the arrogance she had believed only Morzan could've radiated. Leneor had clearly yet to learn that the world did not revolve around him, and Eragon did not look forwards to spending the coming month with him. Apparently her trip to Ilirea was going to be a family vacation, which said a lot about what they thought her chances of becoming a Rider were.

Her nightgown was quickly discarded, and the girl heaved a sigh of relief as the cool, fresh water surrounded her in the tube. It was too warm for Eragon in Alagaësia's south, that was undeniable. She heard Leneor verbally assault Iander, who did not let his brother's sleep-drunk rampage dampen in his mood in the least. On the contrary, Iander seemed take that as a 'go ahead'. Eragon thought that three children would've been enough for Arina and Harold, but just yesterday the news was delivered that her mother was expecting a fourth. Leneor wasn't thrilled. 

Eragon dipped her head underwater, relishing in the blissful feeling of her head cooling as the water soaked her chamoisee-chestnut curls, before resurfacing again, amber eyes blinking away the water. The dress she was supposed to wear hung from the hanger in the bathroom, and Eragon's soft lips thinned. She didn't particularly like dresses -tunics would always be her preference- but most of the time they were bearable. They wouldn't be when she turned twelve, however. Then corsets came into play. 

It was admittedly a rather simplistic dress, although Eragon mostly liked it because it was the most comfortable one. It was a pale tan with linen skirts reaching just above her ankles, and a stiff material for the bodice. A burgundy sash with a black embroidery sewn on it was its most eye-catching feature, and Eragon was thankful that there were no more brocades or extra ruffles and ribbons on it. She may have thought the fashion was very pretty, but wearing it in all its extensive glory was an other story. Besides, she preferred breeches and shirts above dresses anyway. 

The brunette wasn't sure how long she stayed there, but finally she reached for the bottle containing the least sweet-smelling shampoo that she possessed, rubbing the citrus-scented lotion into her hair until it foamed. Her fingers scraped against her scalp perhaps a little longer than necessary, but sitting in a wagon in blistering sun during a heatwave was not something she was looking forwards to. 

She missed riding on Saphira's back. She missed using magic. She missed being Eragon the Blue Rider. She groaned and ducked her head under the water, reaching for the bucket of clean water to rid her curls of any remaining shampoo. 

Iander shrieked happily as his brother fell to the floor from his bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the Eragon series with all my heart; it's an amazing series of books that I really enjoyed reading!  
> There is one thing that never made sense for me, however. Before the fall, apparently only those with potential were allowed to touch the dragon eggs. I find that a little odd. Shouldn't it be the dragons who choose entirely for themselves, and how can one search through every single house in Alagaësia for those with potential?  
> So I fixed that small plot hole (though perhaps I have only misunderstood), by letting all ten year old touch ten eggs (since that seemed to be the most common age in canon as well.) As far as I know, that is the only mistake I've ever found in Eragon, so there should be no more changes^^ 
> 
> Side not for clarification; Eragon Shadeslayer's personality has mixed with Eragon Haroldsdaughter's, since they have now become the same person. It's explained in later chapters, but I though I should tell you before.


	2. The Beginning

Ilirea was a sight to behold. Tall, elegant buildings of pale stones with intricate cravings, possibly depicting vines and leaves, reached up towards the sky, occasional spires gracing the view above the rest. Warded glass was present instead of walls in sturdier houses, to give the city as much light as possible. A few small rivers ran through the city, with bridges built over them, and verdant greenery and lush flowers bloomed on the few buildings that did not race to reach the sky. Eragon smiled broadly at the sight. There were no traces of Galbatorix's tainting rule here.

Five days of intense traveling was worth it, even if her two little brothers didn't make it easy for her. Holding her tongue had never been her forte. Attracting trouble was, but that was beside the point. 

"Eragon, Eragon!" Iander grinned toothily, a rivulet of drool threatening to drip from his chin. A picture book lay discarded at his side, open to display a picture of a fairy. It hadn't kept him busy for very long. 

"Yes?" She sounded more patient than she was. The brunette girl had unfortunately realized that not only was her own original personality mixed with the hijacked girl's, but said girl's traits were not the most patient ones. An insatiable thirst for knowledge, while not exactly new as she had always been curious of nature, had taken a step further. Her empathy was still there, but quickly wore thin if her patience ran out. Mercifully her sense of justice was just as unfaltering as it was before, though she was just a tad bit more irritable. 

"Mummy is growing fat," he declared loudly, glancing at Arina's proud stature. The woman stiffened, but kept quiet. 

"No, she is not," the Shadeslayer replied, heaving a mildly exasperated sigh. "She is expecting a child." 

"Why do we know it's a child she's expecting?" The young boy questioned, wiping away the drool with the back of his hand and confusedly furrowing his brows. "It could be anything." 

Leneor scowled next to Eragon, teeth bared like a feral animal and practically spitting fire. However, he kept quiet and glared at the letters in his leather-bound book instead, shoulders squared. 

"It doesn't work like that," Eragon told him, amber eyes flashing to her brother after tearing away from the magnificent city. "She is expecting a human child, because both parents are human." 

"I thought the stork came with the baby. Does that mean babies come from an other place?" 

Eragon almost snorted, but managed to suppress it by averting her stare to the earthy road. Green grass grew on either side, full of life, and to the west a forest of oak and other thick trees perfect for climbing rose high, lush canopies swaying in the gentle breeze. Further down the road, two young men carrying large bags traveled on horseback. Not to far up a nearby hill, a lady stood amongst the flowers whilst waiting for her accompanying man to set up the table. 

Arina finally turned around, glaring at the youngest child with  furious, golden eyes. "It is not proper to discuss that, especially for children your age." Her generous lips were set in a firm scowl, arms crossed over her chest. Her pale blue dress had managed to hide the beginnings of a bump, as was appropriate, but Eragon knew that she had packed other dresses specially made for pregnancies. 

"But _mummy_ -" Iander's smug teal eyes, inherited from his father, indicated that he had known all along that he was pushing the limits. He pushed his picture book further away from him and turned to face her in his childish glory, attempting to smother a peal of laughter and failing just a little. 

"Listen to mother," Leneor instructed frigidly, slamming the book shut after delicately placing a blue bookmark between the two pages. "Don't push it, brother."

Iander turned his attention to the city, and Leneor hissed a string of curses so quietly that Eragon, who was seated next to him, could barely hear them. The youngest sibling did not look deterred at all, he almost looked accomplished. 

* * *

The room they hired was spacious, with three whole bedrooms. Eragon had no doubt that other, even wealthier families had come here early to get ahold of places like this, avoiding the cramped inns that could not live up to their standards. 

They had arrived a full week earlier, and many places were already full now that there were only two days left before the annual hatching. The inn they had chosen was on the expensive side, but the next option was for Eragon to share room with her two siblings and Arina would not stand for that.

Harold's wallet didn't exactly suffer, but Harold himself had looked rather pained when seeing the price for staying the weeks they had wanted. Arina didn't budge; what was proper, that _was_ proper. It was likely one of those few times the father thought that maybe marrying a rich girl wasn't only beneficial for his pockets. 

Mercifully, Eragon was aware that the couple had grown very fond of each other over the years. Harold, with his big heart and perceptiveness, always knew when something was off. Arina, though stern and proper, was always willing to lend a helping hand and a listening ear -rare as they were. The young girl wondered what role she and her siblings played in the family. 

"Are you nervous for tomorrow?" Iander's question chimed throughout her room like bells, and Eragon arched a slim eyebrow at the tinge of worry in his voice. Iander was always smiling, true, but he was an attention hog as well. She could sympathize with him, however; she was the only girl and therefore Arina payed special attention to her, and Leneor was the heir to the business, so of course Harold took extra time to teach his oldest son all about it. 

"No, I only have to touch the eggs one by one, and then when they hatch we have to see which ones the dragons wanted to hatch for. I don't have to do anything in particular." Eragon told him, looking up from her favorite novel -A Distorted Call, by Whynae Coreidënson- and met his unblinking eyes that reminded her so of the sea. 

"But what if an egg hatches for you? That means you'll leave, right?" 

Eragon nodded slowly, but then an assuring smile spread across her lips. "I doubt any egg would hatch for me, so don't worry. I'm afraid you'll have to put up with me for a while longer." Even if no egg hatched for her, she was curious to see how this Choosing happened; if everyone touched the eggs and a dragon hatched, wouldn't it be impossible to know who the dragon had hatched for? She desperately wished to find out. 

Iander's pouty lips split into a merry grin, showing off his first missing tooth. The boy was only six, but sometimes Eragon feared that the attentive streak he had inherited from his father would not only bring him happiness. He was too outspoken; blurting things out, offending people despite everything he uttered being true. 

Eragon's mixed memories made her just a little wiser, she liked to think. But she knew she probably wasn't. 

"Iander!" Arina's agitated call made him jump, and he wasted no time scurrying away towards his mother. "How many times have I told you _not_ to-" 

Eragon never got to know what Iander had neglected again, for outside there was a sudden rise in voices that piqued her interest. She paddled across the room towards the window facing the wide street, struggled to open it for a brief moment, but finally she overpowered the unused hinges, leaning her forearms on the windowsill to lean out and catch a better glimpse of what was going on. 

Two carriages were blocking the busy road, the wheels of the wagons crashed together in a mess of splinters and broken wood, rendering them unable to move. Both coachmen, hissing and spitting like irate cats, had hopped down to the cobblestones to inspect the damage, only to curse even more. More carriages and bypassing people were hindered, clogging the street like too many pastries in an artery as the sounds rose louder. 

And there, on the front line of the audience, stood an eerily familiar small boy with pecan-brown eyes that were perhaps a bit too big for his face, and unruly, dark curls that framed his soft features. He looked just like she had done, as a young boy. And despite the sudden bout of nervousness making her heart speed up, despite the warmth that flooded her at the sight of his astonished, open-mouthed expression at the sight of the astounding city, despite the furious blinking of her eyes to hide any rebellious tears-despite all of that she waited. Waited to make sure it was him before bounding down the stairs and making a fool of herself for making a mistake. 

Eragon Shadeslayer did not have to wait long, for soon a woman with the same pecan locks as her son had made her way through the crowd. "Brom! You cannot take off like that so suddenly, you worried me!" 

The brunette did not find the virtuous patience to stay in her room any longer, and turned on her heel with a swish of her dark coral skirts. Arina nor Harold noticed her passing by toward the door out of the chambers they had hired, and Leneor as well as Iander were arguing in their room about who had left the window open this morning, letting a pigeon in. 

She flew down the staircase with more grace than a girl her stature should've, two steps at the time and leather ankle-boots supporting her steps more than her Furnost-climate adapted flats had ever done. Her curls, a tinge closer to wavy and copper than Brom's, were secured in a waterfall braid that let it cascade over her shoulders.

She wanted to cut it short and let it be.

Arina wanted it to grow so long she could sit on it, taming it to luscious waves according to fashion. 

She almost ripped the door of its hinges, and scampered outside with wide, whiskey eyes that instantly found their target and led its body towards the boy. _Brom. Brom, Brom Brom Brom-_ She skidded to a halt just a few steps away from him, realizing a tad bit too late that there was no logical way for her to start a conversation with him. She was a bit behind him, almost next to him, his mother separating them. 

It really was him. It was Brom. It was her father, but now he suddenly _wasn't_ her father. 

"But _mother_ ," young Brom complained as she tried to usher him away, tugging at her sleeve with an impatient, radiant grin lighting his face up. "Maybe a Rider will pass by and repair the carriages!" 

The woman pursed her full lips and Eragon found, much to her own bewilderment, that the buxom woman looked restless and worried at those words. As if she didn't want her only son to come in contact with the Riders at all. "And why would they come swooping down just to repair a carriage for us, Brom?" 

For a moment he furrowed his dark brows, absentmindedly biting on his thumbnail as he peered up at the sky. As if the answer would be written in the clouds, or perhaps a Rider on their Dragon. "Maybe one that is passing by will come?" His mother sighed, but Brom's eyes brightened even more with a light that was all too familiar to Eragon. "How big are dragon eggs?" 

"I don't remember. Bigger than a chicken's egg, certainly, and rather colorful." The dark haired woman did not seem to have the energy to humor Brom, and by her clothes Eragon assumed that they had just arrived after the long and tiring trip from Kuasta. Traveling grated on everybody's nerves. The boy, much like Iander, was not deterred. Instead, his eyes searched for any potential age-mates that had also come to Ilirea for the Dragons, gluing themselves on the girl in the coral dress. 

"Miss, how big do you think the Dragon eggs are?" He blurted out, scurrying past his mother and grasping the Shadeslayer's hands with an eager smile that almost made Eragon stumble over her own words. Up close, she noticed that his nose was dusted with faint freckles, and that he had to be almost a year younger than her. Eragon's birthday was only four days after the egg hatching, which was why she was most likely one of the oldest in this year's batch. Brom could very well have just become ten, while she was close to her eleventh birthday. 

"Er, well-" Eragon started, taking a step back when seeing almost her own reflection sent from the future in which she was a male. Brom didn't seem to notice, laughing merrily and waving his mother's aggravated scoldings - _don't assault delicate girls_ \- away with a tanned hand. "I don't know, like a watermelon?" She improvised, unable to fight a cheerful smile at his enthusiasm. 

" _That_ big? Whoa..." He gaped, and then clasped his hands together excitedly. "And how do you think it looks like in the castle? D'you think it'll be big? Huge? Do they even keep the eggs in the castle? I've always assumed they did-" 

Eragon couldn't help but to think that the Brom she had known, as a teen seeking vengeance, was a bit of a hypocrite. He was just as curious as she had been. She was more than happy to let him prattle, though, since it gave her time to gather her wits properly. His mother shook her dark locks, and motioned towards an inn nearby where they were apparently planning on getting a room. Brom barely noticed. 

"Mother's name is Nelda," Brom told her as they walked down a less busy side-road. The stones underneath their shoes were an assembly of white and ashen, giving even the few alleys a sense of light, and the fragrance of flower's wafter through the air as they passed a florist. "She doesn't want me to leave, and she's convinced I'll be chosen as a Rider. I wish I knew why, though, since there are so many coming every year sand only about three of four become Riders." 

"Ah, she seemed to be a bit worried about you," Eragon agreed, bobbing her head with a sunny smile that hid her inner nostalgia, but didn't need to say any more before Brom started again. 

"A _bit_? She's very doting and all, but there's a reason why people move out, y'know? How does she expect me to manage anything myself if she wants to guide every step?" He exclaimed, but not unkindly. His argument was sound, but Eragon couldn't help but to raise an eyebrow. She understood that overprotectiveness could be annoying, but she got he feeling that Nelda only acted like that because Brom always acted on his own, no matter what others told him. 

"Say, when's your birthday?" Eragon steered the conversation away, and mercifully Brom wasn't as perceptive as he would be in a century, so he was more than happy to continue chatter. 

"Just yesterday, actually! Father says it was a bit if a drag that it fell during the trip, but I think that it just made it even better. I got this cool book and a scarf, but mother was rather moody... No matter, she's unhappy because she misses Women's Festival back in Kuasta, the whole thing's ridiculous really. There's just food, it's nothing different from the other festivals we hold." Brom nodded to himself and then, almost on afterthought, he added, "Hey, when's your birthday?" 

"August the twenty-ninth," she replied, nudging him so that he didn't head into the more maze-like direction of Ilirea. "You said you got a cool book, do you like reading?" 

"Books are my life," he promised vehemently, squaring his unimpressive shoulders. "I can't stand people who say they hate reading! I mean, there's a reason we're born with brains and not rocks in our head."

The words were comfortingly familiar, and Eragon cracked a grin. "I can agree to that, I really love reading! I like everything, especially fiction and... Eh, what do you like to read?" 

"Everything, really," he confessed with a merry smile, but then his face fell. "I can't stand memoirs, though. They're so inaccurate!" He almost looked pained, but then brightened significantly again. "Hey, hey! I'm Brom, by the way, Brom Holcombsson." He stuck his slightly gritty hand out for her too shake. 

"Nice to meet you, Brom," the past-Rider sincerely said, taking his hand with glittering, amber eyes. "I'm Eragon Haroldsdaughter." 


	3. Jura the Rider

"I don't like onion soup," Brom informed Eragon with an amiable smile as they passed a restaurant. She didn't reply, but hummed instead. Above them, the setting sun had streaked the skies with warm amber and violets, bathing the white city in fiery colors and giving it an ethereal glow. "Mother really likes it, however. I don't get why she makes us eat it, though. Onions are _expensive_." 

The young girl got the feeling that while Brom certainly wasn't poor, he was far from rich. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then." Eragon said as they reached the pricey inn, its windows illuminated from the inside by cozy candles and oil lamps. "When we go to the eggs." Brom nodded.

"Yeah, I guess we will. Bye, Eragon!" He gave her a last splitting grin before scampering off towards the inn just a bit down the road. The Shadeslayer's amber stare lingered on him for a few more seconds, watching his merry journey with slight puzzlement -he was so _different_ \- before retreating back into the building with a kick of her heels and rustling coral skirts. She found herself smiling, a sharp curve of her rosy lips that did not quite posses the heartfelt warmth of the smile she had in her previous life. Ice around her heart thawed at the memory of Brom's genuine happiness, and she found herself placing a pale hand where her heart was beating. She had long since stopped questioning if this existence was real, although the question _why_ had remained with burning fever. But now, why it had all happened matter very little. She had this chance, and it was happening every second of her new existence, and she would be damned if she didn't make the best of it.

That was just the way Eragon Haroldsdaughter, or Shadeslayer for that matter, was. 

The brunette scaled the wooden stairs and walked into the hall of the second floor. The vermilion carpet, though not the thickest, softened the echoes against the walls and Eragon gently knocked on the door leading to their hired chambers. She didn't need to wait for more than a split-second before the sound of heels clicking against the floor rushed towards the door. Arina, irate flush riding high upon her cheeks and with whiskey eyes shining with fury, stood at the doorway as the personification of maternal worry turned to anger.  

Eragon almost took a step back.

"Where _have_ you been?" She demanded. She must've recently changed, because she was wearing an other dress than she had the afternoon. The amber skirt was slightly rounded, matching her eyes although the material wasn't quite as bright. The virago sleeves weren't quite as ridiculously puffed up as the highest-class nobles, but still spoke for itself. "We're leaving for dinner in a bit more than half an hour, so you better get ready right this instant!"

Eragon was thankful she didn't have to answer the initial question, and spared no hesitation before scampering towards her room and locking the door behind her. For a moment she debated on whether or not to shower, but decided against it. She had showered just this morning, and she hadn't been sweating today. 

Arina had already picked out a dress for her; a deep violet, high-waist dress meant to make her look just a little older than she was, ending just below her ankles. The sleeves were wide, with a white trim, already flaring out a bit above her elbows and ending a bit above her wrists. Fashion clearly indicated that they should be longer, but Eragon was grateful Arina thought about practical use as well. 

The young girl hastily slipped it on, struggling just a little with the stiff material of the bodice, before scurrying into the bathroom. Her hair was more frizzled than usual, curly locks jutting out more than appropriate for a girl of her standing. 

For a brief moment, she felt annoyed and the reckless through of just cutting the unruly tresses _short short short_ raged in her mind. Of course, she didn't. Eragon Shadeslayer may have wanted to, but that personality had blended with the calmer, cunning and more prideful nature of Eragon Haroldsdaughter. And she knew how much appearances mattered.

She forcefully dragged the brush through her hair, wincing occasionally when combing through a particularly messy knot in her hair, until the locks tumbled down her shoulders in not-quite-curly waves. She knew that in a matter of minutes it would go back to her ringlets, but it shouldn't frizzle up like that again. 

She stared a few more moments, reflection staring back just as intensely. Yes, her pointy chin was definitely the most noticeable difference between her current self and her past. Her hair curled less, and that was a difference she found herself appreciating. At first, she had through she was eerily similar to her past (future?) self, but now she could discern more and more dissimilarities. It helped that she wasn't desperately looking for similarities anymore. 

Her magic's shenanigans covered just enough so that if she were to meet Eragon Shadeslayer, they wouldn't be considered family. The girl's frame was unimpressive, lacking any significant muscle, her coloring was different, but not quite so different that she would suffer an apoplectic fit when seeing herself in the mirror. 

"Leneor is being stupid, can you hurry up? I don't wanna listen to him whining anymore-" Iander's voice carried into the room, followed by an impatient pounding on her door. She was certain she heard Leneor hiss something, indignant, to the small boy. 

"It's _want to_ , not wanna," Arina chided Iander, and Harold let out a hearty chuckle. "And don't be so impatient, you're just as irritable as your brother right now." 

Eragon heaved a sigh, though not unhappy, and left the safety of the bathroom. The skirts rustled gently as she slipped into her flats, then fluttered elegantly around her as she walked out of her room. "I'm coming," she called, and unlocked the door to her room and swung it open. 

It almost hit Iander, and Leneor seemed smug about it. 

* * *

 Eragon found herself bored out of her mind, amber eyes discerning every crumble on her plate, and her back painfully stiff. This was by far the longest dinner she had participated in yet, and the adults -an assembly of relatively known businessmen and their families- were only getting started on the wine. 

The room they were seated in was spacious, with a floor covered in a red carpet to match the scarlet curtains. Chandeliers, undoubtedly the most expensive pieces in the room, hung from the pale roof, glittering like stars when they reflected the candles and oil lamps. The wooden table was long, with a delicate linen tablecloth over the expanse of it. The walls were colored the same pale honey as the roof, lined with tinges of white. Men, clad in their costumes and fine clothes, talked about things that Eragon found herself understanding little of -much to her chagrin. Women, all donning fashionable dresses with high waistlines and virago sleeves of light fabrics, chattered idly with one another. And Eragon found herself even less interested in their smalltalk than the men's business talk. 

The only particularly interesting person in the room was Jura, a girl two years her senior with hair the colors of flames and eyes greener than the brightest emeralds. She was a Rider; or at least, an apprentice. But she was sitting at he other end of the table and Eragon had no way to talk to her at the moment. 

"I hear your father's business is going well?" The man in front of her, Shoune Falloweb, questioned amicably as he placed his wineglass back onto the table. He was in his mid-fifties, with graying hair that must've once been a rich brown, creases around his mouth and eyes, and a long nose. 

"It is," the past-Rider replied, stiffly, and clasped her hands together in her lap. "Before we left, he negotiated an agreement with the marketing section in Furnost." Harold had been elated, bragged about it for days. 

"Is that so? Well, that is very fortunate for you then." He gave her a genuine smile, inky eyes crinkling as he did so. "Your father and I trade goods, you see. Up in Teirm, we lack any exotic fruits. Luckily your father trades that, and in exchange for that, we send our steel to you." 

Eragon wasn't that interested, but the man was more than happy to prattle about which roads were good to take when travelling between the two cities. "It's better to take the road a few miles left to Ilirea. The way past Dras Leona is packed with thieves and lowlifes." 

"Ah, has there been any accidents there?" The girl inquires, perhaps a little more morbidly curious than appropriate. Then again, Eragon was always just the edge over what was perfectly appropriate. She smiled softly, just for extra measure, and Falloweb nodded energetically before taking a sip from his wine. 

"Oh, yes. Some truly ghastly ones, I hear." He informed her, and just like her's his eyes danced a little to brightly for the topic. "A rival of mine, apparently his youngest son was skewered on the road." 

The brunette blinked, and then nodded slowly. "How terrible," she finally decided, and the businessman cleared his throat. 

"Definitely. That's why I always make sure to find the best roads for transport," he told her, and took a last bite from the pie. "It's the same story if one wants to travel to Ceunon, the robbers know exactly where to ambush any innocent by passer. It's just where the path gets narrow and one is surrounded by a pine forest, you see." 

"Have you ever lost any men on the road, Mister Falloweb?" Eragon asked him, and tentatively brought the glass of water to her lips to quench the slight burning in her throat. The man's inky eyes dimmed for a brief moment, though they never truly lost their twinkle. 

"Oh, I most certainly have. There was a convoy I sent to Belatona a few years ago, it never reached the town and everybody was slaughtered. It was some cult, judging by the way the intestines were organized in patterns across the ground. Thankfully, the Dragon Riders took care of them." He told her, taking a bigger sip from the wine. The conversation died down when the servants of the grand household came in with platters of cheese. 

The subject was perhaps too macabre for a dinner like that, and Eragon Shadeslayer wasn't one to talk about death this loosely. But Eragon Haroldsdaughter was curious by nature, and Shoune Falloweb was naturally talkative. 

The evening progressed slowly, dragging on and on, until _finally_ the adults were drunk enough to dare start dancing to the music coming from the house next door. Eragon slumped in her seat, back aching slightly and neck stiff. Knowing no eyes were on her, she carelessly poured her glass full with cool water and downed it in five large, unladylike gulps. 

She wiped her lips with the back of her hand, and her eyes stuck on Harold and Arina who were twirling around among the other guests with silly laughs. It was hard to be believe there had been an arranged marriage, and even harder to believe there was still no real love between them. One didn't grow to love somebody easily. But at least Arina and Harold were fond of each other, true companionship in full bloom, and that was more than enough. Eragon banned any thoughts about her own future in any marriage, for she had more important matters at hand. She had to stop Galbatorix, that was given, but the _how_ was still variable x without a solution. It would have to wait until after the Choosing. 

"This whole thing is such a drag, isn't it?" A clear voice piped up next to Eragon, and she whipped her whisky stare to the newcomer. 

It was Jura, and Eragon was immensely relieved. 

Up close, even more things gave away her status as Rider. Athletic muscles clung to her lithe form, callouses adorning her hands, just like the Gedwëy Ignasia proudly displayed when the redhead held her hand out for the Shadeslayer to shake. "The name's Jura, but I think you already know that. People end to talk when a human girl is chosen, and even more so when she doesn't choose to specialize in the healing arts," she grinned, subtly boisterous, and sat down in the empty chair next to Eragon. 

"My name is Eragon Haroldsdaughter, and yes," the brunette confirmed with a lopsided small smile, because _finally_   _there was someone_ who might tell her something about Galbatorix. "You were definitely the topic of conversation earlier this evening." 

Jura laughed, a carefree sound reminiscent of chiming bells. The pale orange A-line dress was made out of fine silks, and her hair cascaded down her back in untamable curls that made her own hair look straight in comparison. Its sleeves were relatively tight, barely reaching her elbows and with white brocades at the cuffs. The rounded neckline was adorned by a white ribbon, and the bodice decorated with white lace. It wasn't fashionable; the sleeves were too tight, the waistline too low, and the skirts too straight -but it was undeniably pretty on her. 

"Sadly, it wouldn't be because of my pretty face," she sounded genuinely disappointed as she filled her glass with cider. "Well, it's not like I should complain. Mum keeps nagging me to come home once in a while and take a break from my training, but I'm pretty sure she's just trying to convince me to become a healer and stay here in Ilirea to settle down." The elder girl nodded in the direction of a slender woman in a cerulean dress. 

Eragon was surprised that Jura informed her so freely about herself, and about such a topic at that. Back in Furnost, or even Carvahall, that was very uncommon for girls. Especially when they didn't even know each other. And, she honestly didn't mind. "That sounds horrible. My mum isn't as discreet, she tends to straight out tell me in my face what she expects." 

"Then you're lucky," Jura snorted after she gulped down some of the liquid in her glass, and the brunette was acutely aware of how disappointed Arina would be if she knew who her daughter was talking to. At the moment, she honestly didn't care either. Having someone to talk to, a _girl_ to talk to, who wasn't like the uptight rich girls in Furnost; that was a relief. 

"You think?" Eragon grinned crookedly. "I'm not too sure, mother can be pretty intense." 

"Oh really?" Jura sounded mildly interested. "Who is it?" 

Eragon pointed at Arina, who was still dancing with Harold but seemed to be lecturing him while they did so.

"Ah," she hummed and then her pink lips quirked up into a small grin. Her emerald eyes danced, and almost seemed to have a tint of yellow in the candlelight. "Are you here for the Choosing?" 

"Yeah," Eragon blurted out, and the word felt foreign on her tongue. It had been months since she had said _yeah_ instead of _yes_. "I don't think I have much of a chance, though." 

Jura's grin softened into a heartfelt smile. "I knew you'd want to be a Rider." She finally uttered, and Eragon's eyes widened fractionally, but didn't get to chance to ask _how_  before the redhead clarified. "I recognize that look in your eye, you wouldn't be satisfied with a life like this. It'd be too dull." Jura noted perceptively, and then grinned wildly. "So you better make sure to get a dragon to hatch for you, or I'll be the only human girl who doesn't delve into the healing arts. Formora would never let me live that down."

 _Formora_. Where had Eragon heard that name before? Formora, Formora- wasn't that the elf who joined the Forsworn? Well, if everything went according to her non-existent plan, there wouldn't be any Forsworn. 

The redhead drank some more, this time of cider. 

"You and this Formora are friends?" The past-Rider asked the other girl, who nodded energetically. 

"Definitely. I mean, we argue a lot and our opinions differ, but there's no way we'd ever give up our friendship." Jura's emerald pools sparkled with fondness, and Eragon found herself wondering if it had been Formora who had killed Jura. The brunette girl propped a piece of salty cheese into her mouth, and glanced at Jura to see the other girl staring out at the dancers. 

"Say, you wouldn't mind telling me how the Choosing works?" Eragon innocently posed the question, amber eyes glancing at the viridian-eyed young teen and desperately wishing for an answer. The redhead laughed once again, fingers combing through her wild ginger curls. 

"Curious one, aren't we?" Jura snickered, and Eragon's lips curled into a sharp, crooked grin. "You just gotta go up there and touch the eggs, while this really old dragon is watching you. He senses bonds and stuff, he's hypersensitive to emotions. The poor thing, everyone is so nervous when they enter the castle and he's forced to endure it." 

"I always wondered why the Choosing was in Ilirea, and not Doru Araeba," the time-traveling, accidentally-body-hijacking girl hinted, and Jura snorted.

Eragon distinctly remembered that Thuviel had destroyed the dragon eggs by blowing himself up near them, and that had been at Vroengard. She guessed they had been moved there during the war. 

"One would think little merchant girls had more manners than asking everything to their seniors," she joked, and Eragon shook her head. The redhead's smile faded, "Truth to be told, I'm really not supposed to talk about it. They'll soon be brought back to Doru Araeba, however."

For a moment, Eragon's mind went haywire. Was she too late, had she arrived only just before the war, too late to stop it? She had blindly assumed _no_ , so but what if she had been wrong? 

Jura seemed to pick on to something, or read the worry displayed across her pale face, for she patted Eragon comfortingly on the shoulder. "It's nothing to worry about, it was this sickness that spread a few years ago and we sent the eggs here, just in case. The rest is classified." 

The past-Rider was relieved. But, sensing the lingering reluctance, she cracked an assuring, easygoing grin. She lied through her teeth, "and I thought it was because you wouldn't want tons of humans and elves stumbling around in your city. I would probably think a few newcomers every year was enough, but to go as far as to send te eggs away really would send bad vibes."

The redhead threw her head back as she gulped down the remaining cider in her glass, and gave her new friend a playful smirk. "Wish that was true." There was a brief pause, then- "I wouldn't mind if you were one of the newcomers to stumble around with newly hatched dragons" 

And Eragon smiled. 


	4. The Choosing

It was early, the sun's first scarlet rays barely painting the sky and the birds chirping in the trees without being drowned out by the cacophonies and clamor of the busy city. Eragon didn't think it could be much later than five in the morning. The courtyard of the grand castle, however, was flocked with young prepubescents. 

It was like a beehive filled with nervous and fidgety bees, all zooming around without any purpose. Elves and humans, normally rarely interacting, now gathered in one place and all the same tender age. Eragon hadn't seen Brom yet, but she was willing to bet he was scurrying around and trying to see _everything_. 

The Shadeslayer would've found it amusing weren't it for the knot in her own stomach. She doubted any egg would hatch for her, but if it did- what about Saphira? _Saphira_. She was her dragon, and Eragon was her Rider, they were a _team_. She couldn't betray Saphira like that. Then again, if a dragon hatched, it would certainly bring her a step closer to Galbatorix and a way to defeat him. Or, if she was lucky, prevent his first dragon from dying and therefore keep him sane. Arrogance and vanity was no sin in itself; Leneor possessed plenty of the silent kind, yet he was certainly not a bad person. 

As the sun steadily rose higher, thoughts ran amok in her head. The bench she was sitting on was partly hidden behind a large rosebush, giving her the peace needed to think. It wasn't until she was mulling over how the castle would look like inside that she was shaken awake. 

It was a young human girl, with platinum hair and pale blue eyes that had sat down next to her. She sat stiffly, back painfully straight as if about to leave again any moment. The indistinct murmur from the other side of the rosebush did little to sate the void of silence between them. 

Eragon closed her golden eyes and leaned back, head resting against the marble behind her. It was cool, yet to be touched by the sunbeams, and she tried to enjoy it. The past-Rider could hear the other girl shift, a barely audible sound emitted from the rustling of her lavender dress. 

"I'm Eragon," she finally spoke, voice steadier than she felt. Her golden eyes opened to study the sky. By now, it was streaked with tangerine orange and cyan as well. "Who are you?"

She was met with thick silence, and her gaze wandered to the other girl. The blonde was even paler than she was, her skin a snowy white and her button nose delicately dusted with small freckles. Her eyes were wide, and wandered around uncertainly. As soon as their stares met, her blue pools glued themselves to her feet. The brunette past-Rider was acutely aware of the other's fine clothes -noble girl, if she had to guess. With that demeanor, most likely a younger sibling.

"Sigrid." 

Had it not been for the rushed movements of the girl's rosy lips, Eragon would've likely lumped it in with the meaningless chatter from the other side of the rosebush. The brunette's bow-shaped mouth curved up into a carefree smile. 

"Your name is Sigrid?" She inquired amicably, just to be sure. The other girl nodded, a jerky and small movement that didn't quite suit her. "It's a pretty name." Not very remarkable, however, and rather common. But Eragon wasn't quite blunt enough to say that. 

Silence ensued once again, and Eragon found herself wondering why the girl had sat down next to her. There were a handful of other empty benches left. Maybe she just didn't want to be alone? Either way, Eragon needed this time to think and the unexpected company gave her little concentration.

Jura had said the eggs would be moved back to Doru Araeba soon, since a sickness had gone rampant in Vroengard a good five years ago. That certainly was better than Galbatorix threatening them, but Eragon wanted to know more and it made her mind uneasy to not have any way to gain answers... Eragon was about a year older than Brom, who was three years younger than Morzan, who had been the first Forsworn. This meant that Morzan had most likely been Chosen by a dragon at the same time as Jura, meaning they were in the same group. But what was Jura doing here in Ilirea? The golden-eyed girl hadn't asked that. She estimated she still had at least two years until Galbatorix would go mad, and she could work with that.

Minutes trickled by, and the most noticeable incident was when two boys playing tag ran into the thorny bushes.

What felt like ages later, the grand gates into the castle were opened. Guards in polished armor were everywhere, though probably meant to make sure nobody got lost or took the wrong turn. Eragon doubted the royal family would want strange little brats running around, much less those with so little money they'd be eager to steal every ornate knickknack that could fit into a pocket.

The multitude of ten year-olds were ushered into the hall, a spacious marble room with a roof so high Eragon's home in Furnost would've fitted. And that was saying something, for it wasn't a small house. Gasps were heard, awed and choked, but nobody was allowed to linger long before the were led into a side-corridor. People bumped into each other, tripping over not only other's feet but their own as well. Nobody had time to fall to the floor, however, since everybody was equally eager to get there (whether to get it over with or to get Chosen, Eragon had no idea) and helped the other to keep upright.

Mercifully, Eragon found herself behind a rotund boy who was surprisingly agile for his size, so she was rarely shoved around. Part of her felt a little bad for those with less luck, but another was only relived.

Tapestries and occasional expensive paintings adorned the walls, oil lamps evenly distributed to light up the way. Alcoves to the left harbored large windows of tinted glass, framed by ebony window frames and golden curtains, letting in light from what Eragon speculated was a garden. The ones to the right very occasionally held a rounded door. Eragon could practically feel the magic in the air, and it was a comfortingly familiar feeling. It certainly was a heavily guarded place.

She made sure the barriers around the memories of her past life remained unwavering -a feat she accomplished after weeks of mediation she was now more than sick of. The young girl was aware that abrupt barriers would be too obvious, so they were meant to inconspicuously redirect any intruders. It helped that nobody would ever imagine she'd know that, though unfortunately that was as far as her abilities went.

The golden-eyed girl tried memorizing the way they took, but after _left-right-left-left,_ a staircase down and then up, and a series of misleading turns and fluttering curtains, she had to stop. Eragon was certain they were taking a detour, because as far as she was concerned the were walking in a circle. Then again, she supposed it made sense.

The hallway abruptly ended in a grand, wide waiting room. "Wait here until we call our name, then you may enter." A guard at the front of the crowd said, but she couldn't see his face from the distance. Not for the first time, she mourned the loss of elven senses and Dragon Sight.

The furniture in the room was all very basic, and there were plenty of them, so she concluded that the sole purpose of this room was to give a large mass of people a place to sit and wait. The most comfortable places were immediately occupied, and Eragon had no intention of standing for she didn't know how long. There were hundreds of children, so it was an offense to personal space to squeeze them all into the same room. They sat everywhere, on the chairs, on the armrests, propped up against the wall, on the floor, on a windowsill. Eragon found herself near a corner, sitting on a carpet next to a sofa.

Next to her, Sigrid was curled up against the wall. ' _She must have good eyes to recognize a familiar face in such a crowd,_ ' Eragon mused. The blonde's head was resting against the wall, azure eyes closed and spindly arms resting in her lap. Eragon knew she wasn't asleep. 

Voiced buzzed through the room, at first excited and loud, but now mellow as lack of sleep caught up to them. A mild murmur lulled those who were tired to sleep, though Eragon couldn't find any rest. She was so close _._ She could become a Rider, and save not only the future but make herself a better life. _She was so close_.

She didn't believe she would become a Rider, but it was nice to think about it.

Regularly, children were called in with only a two minute interval. It seemed to be in alphabetical order, first name. At the rate this was going, it would be at least a full five hours until her own name was called, though only about two until it was Brom's turn. In Sigrid's case, it would be her turn in twenty hours, which would be at around midnight. 

The pang of sympathy she felt for the silent noble-girl was immense. 

Eragon wished she had a book to give the girl, or at least something to busy herself with. The only thing she could give the other girl was a conversation, and that didn't seem like the best of ideas. Then again, it was worth a shot. "Where are you from?" 

Sigrid's shoulders stiffened noticeably, and she turned her wide cobalt eyes to Eragon, staring at her through a tangle of white eyelashes. "W-where I'm from?" She echoed quietly, mildly disbelieving, and then her eyes lit up, even if just a little, and a hopeful smile had seemingly been about to curl her lips. Then, she folded back into herself, like a hermit crab slipping back into its seashell, and averted her startling gaze. 

"Bullridge," she said after a moment of silence. Eragon distantly remembered that Bullridge had been the city she and Murtagh avoided when they were fleeing the Empire, but her knowledge didn't have a further extent. 

"Oh really? How is it there?" She blurted out curiously, and once again a shadow of a smile fluttered across Sigrid's face before ceasing to exist. 

Another person was called into the room.

"Warm," the other girl spoke, and Eragon smiled encouragingly. "It's located j-just near a river, and we're surrounded by fields and rocky grasslands." 

Eragon could picture it, a bustling farming city located next to a river in a dale, and with rocky landscapes filled with verdant grass and flowers around it, and a few persistent trees scattered around. "I'm from Furnost," she informed the blonde after another blanket of silence threatened to fall. "It's just next to Tüdosten Lake, so even if we're close to the desert it's very green." 

Sigrid nodded, a motion more fluid than this morning. "I've never b-been there," she admitted shyly, and wrapped her arms around her legs as she leaned her chin on her knees. "B-but it sounds nice." 

Eragon beamed. "It is, though it's too warm for my liking," she started amicably, a slight grin quirking her lips when she notices she has Sigrid's full attention. The Shadeslayer continued, improvising, "I would like to travel, when I grow up. I'd love to see the north, we barely have snow in Furnost and I would love to see more of it." 

Sigrid hummed, a soft and gentle sound, and Eragon glanced at her. For a moment, it seemed like the noble wouldn't say anything else, and then- "It sounds r-really," she hesitated, "amazing."

"You think?" Eragon's crooked grin widened when the blue-eyes girl nodded, though she wondered what could've made Sigrid so timid. Curiosity hit her like a brick, but she bit her tongue. The conversation fell silent, and Eragon watched two boys skid around like insects on a sugar high. One of the fell of someone's legs, and an elven boy joined in as they continued running.

Another person was called into the room. 

"D-do you think- say, if, y-you know..." Sigrid trailed off and an embarrassed blush rode high upon her cheeks when the sentence refused to build. Eragon fastened her golden stare on the blonde, and raised a quizzical eyebrow. 

"What?" She inquired curiously, and Sigrid finally faced her. Had Eragon been walking, she would've stumbled. The cobalt depths held so much hope and deep, _deep_ loneliness that it made her own heart ache. The noble blinked, and the brunette smiled faintly. 

"I... It w-was nothing," she hastily dismissed after a moment of hesitation, and smiled into her knees. It was an awkward, unsure thing, but it still lit up her pale features like a sun. 

Another person was called into the room. 

They didn't converse again, and everything around her seems dot dull as her eyes drooped. She caught snippets of conversations around her, vaguely aware of the fact that Sigrid had fallen asleep against the wall next to her. 

_"-so cool, soaring through the sky-"_

_"-unfair, she can't do that-"_

_"-are so soft-"_

_"-a bit nervous, what if-"_

At some point, sleep must've caught up to Eragon as well, because she found herself in the blissful realm of dreams. Her sleep wasn't deep, so she knew she was dreaming, but it was still relaxing.

_**-** There were butterflies fluttering all around her, in more colors than she had ever been able to imagine. She was standing in waist-high grass, staring down at an old temple she couldn't identify. White marble stones were scattered around it, and bright red poppies and roses were easily distinguishable all around her. It was beautiful, peaceful. The butterflies cleared as she walked towards the temple, a breeze carrying the scent of freshly baked buns. It didn't fit in with the scenery, but it did make her realize she was rather hungry. _

_"Eragon," a voice called, and she sped up. The flowers' fragrance intensified, and Eragon found that she was moving too slowly **-**_

"Eragon," a voice whispered next to her ear, and she woke up with a start. Sigrid's pale face was close to hers, her dainty hand resting on her elbow. Eragon glanced around her, realizing she was still propped up with her back against the wall in the enormous waiting room. There was no food, though she suspected that might come later for lunch. The flowery scent seemed to have come from Sigrid.

"What is it?" She asked Sigrid, hiding a yawn behind her hand and glancing around her as she tried to blink the lingering drowsiness from her whiskey eyes. 

"They started c-calling up the names starting on E a while a-ago, I think it's your t-turn soon," the blonde explained, rushed, and Eragon nodded as she combed a few stray strands back with her hands. 

"Oh, thank you," she smiled tiredly, scratching the back of her neck as the other girl pulled away. Her dark mauve dress was bunched up around her legs, riding up all the way to her knees and she sluggishly pushed it back down. It was a rather comfortable dress, since the bodice wasn't as stiff as the other ones, but sleeping in it wasn't very pleasant. 

A person left the room, and a part of Eragon knew that she must've slept a lot longer than she initially thought if it was already soon her turn. She had missed Brom, then. A glance out of the large window told her the sun had climbed high across the blue, cloudless sky.

The past-Rider stretched, feeling her back popping and clarity seeping back into her senses. "I'll get going, then," she told Sigrid, who bobbed her head and gave her a small, shy smile. "Good luck."

The blond stuttered something back, presumably _good luck_ as well, and Eragon stood up. She headed towards the doors, two large wooden structures adorned by intricate carvings and swaths of golden paint, and was very careful not to step on anyone or trip. People chattered quietly all around her, a comforting and constant sound that unfortunately didn't help to settle Eragon's growing nerves.

A few others were already waiting at the doors, two elves and three humans, of which one was the plump boy she had walked behind during their march to the waiting room. Nobody spoke, and Eragon was completely fine with that. She had to stand there for a good ten minutes, watching them enter the room one by one and newcomers joining the group, before finally-  

"Eragon." The tall guard sounded tired and bored as he spoke, though she could hardly blame him. He stepped aside, letting her enter through the ajar door -she could understand why they wouldn't want to keep the door wide open, but _still_.

The girl found herself in a small corridor, very light and plain, which ended at a smaller door. There were already three persons waiting. One was an elven teen, with silky copper hair spilling down her back. The other two were kids her age, yet to be allowed inside. She assumed that they always kept another waiting line here, in case one child wasn't waiting at the first door when the name was called and they needed to find the person. She had been about to ask, but one glance at the elf's face told her otherwise.

"Have you been here long?" She blurted out instead, and hazel eyes met hers.

"I've been standing here since five, and I've got to wait here and watch over you brats until after midnight, so don't you complain," the elf instantly shot back moodily, and Eragon's lips twisted with displeasure at the unexpected animosity. Then again, if she had been the one to stand there for that long, she wouldn't have been a ray of sunshine either. The elf sighed, and at least had the decency to look a little apologetic. Even if just for a brief moment.

Once again the persons before her disappeared behind the door, and soon Eragon was first in line and found herself having a good view of every single vein in the wooden door. The elf stared down at the notes in her hand, and her lips twitched slightly. "You're Eragon?"

"Yes," she confirmed, ad the elf ticked a name on her list. The Shadeslayer wondered who she was, but didn't ask despite the familiar urge to _find out everything_. For a brief moment she met the elf's hazel eyes, and just when Eragon thought she'd say something philosophic or wise-

"That's a boy's name."

The elven girl didn't look sorry at all when she opened the door for Eragon, ushered her in with a gentle push, and the shut it behind her. She could've sworn the elf's lips had been upturned into a sharp smile, however. 

The room was, as expected, relatively spacious. The roof, walls and floor were all made of the same dark gray stones. Crimson curtains framed the large windows that let in plenty of sunlight, and oil lamps were hung to the walls and giving the room a slightly warmer feeling. 

Pedestals, four rows of them, displayed dragon eggs in more colors than Eragon had ever imagined. She estimated that there were a little less than forty of them, a surprisingly low number, though the inquisitive girl -epistemophilic, Brom had called it- suspected it might have something to do with that sickness Jura had mentioned. 

At the other end of the room stood an elf- an elf with the Belt of Twelve Stars. Eragon was certain Beloth the Wise had already died before the Fall, so she wasn't certain if that was him, but it wasn't impossible. Next to him stood a very familiar redhead, who was grinning impishly. The most noticeable feature, however, was the apparent lack of dragon. 

"I thought there'd be a dragon?" She questioned before she could stop herself, and Jura laughed. 

"I forgot to mention that, did I? He's in the gardens, just behind this wall," she jutted her thumb towards the dark wall behind her. The elf didn't even look bemused, so Eragon assumed either Jura had told him something or he was very good at hiding any feelings of confusion he might've had. "He's far too large to fit in here," a playful ' _dummy_ ' was left unspoken, but Eragon heard it clear as the day. "Now, you just have to touch the eggs a second or two, one by one." 

There was a certain casualty in the way everything was handled that made Eragon smile as she reached out and touched the first egg of the first row, a bright yellow egg with amber veins across its smooth surface. For a moment she stood there, a little awkwardly, but then moved on to the next. 

She could feel Jura's stare on her, so hopeful and expectant it made nervousness flitter through her. The Varden had once looked at her like that, and she had let them down. Eragon didn't want to let anyone down again, not a friend or family or acquaintance and not herself. There had been a spark of hope before that she had never allowed to blossom, but now it was fueled into a raging fire. As she touched the third one, a graphite egg with silver webbings, she _wanted_ to become a Rider. Not to defeat Galbatorix, not to save the future, but because _she_ wanted to be able to fly and share a bond and be with friends. 

One egg after another.

She laid her hand on the first one of the second row, a scarlet egg, wondering if it was Thorn. Nothing. She moved on.

Azure. 

Periwinkle. 

Ivory. 

Coffee.

The footsteps echoed faintly as she walked over to the first egg on the second row, nervous and with golden eyes dancing. She rested her hand on its amethyst surface, waited a moment, and then moved on to the third row. 

Emerald.

Slate. 

Eyes were constantly on her back, waiting. 

Rose. 

Arctic blue.

Obsidian.

One smooth surface after another. So many _nothings_. 

Honey gold. 

Rose red. 

Up to the third row. Eragon swallowed and rested her hand on another egg. 

Orange. 

Tan. 

Lapis blue. 

There were no more than ten eggs left. 

Cinnamon. 

Magenta. 

"Stop," the elf's voice made Eragon freeze. "The dragon has chosen you." 

The world may very well have tipped over its axis. Eragon almost did, anyway. She stared at the egg touching the palm of her hand. Turquoise, with ashen veins crossing all over the egg like intricate cobwebs. And it had chosen _her_. Eragon smiled, a small and disbelieving thing that barely played on her lips. 

She felt so much at that moment, when she gently picked it up and cradled it close. The dragon inside most likely knew about Saphira, yet it had chosen _her_. Eragon barely heard the elf's voice when he directed her towards a small room, hidden behind the thick, red curtains. 

The egg was secure in her hold. 

She never wanted to let go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another longer chapter!  
> Now, about the relationships, I've gotten some ideas. I know who the minor characters are going to end up with, but since you're reading about Eragon and you'll be seeing a lot of her, I figured I should take your opinion into consideration as well!  
> Personally, I thought Morzan x Eragon...  
> Please tell me what you think!


	5. A New Beginning

Eragon's heart was beating against her ribs like a caged bird, but there was no frantic desperation, only the after rush of nervous adrenaline. The turquoise egg was smooth, and when she held it close her entire being was flooded with emotions, like an unforgiving tidal wave from the tales originating from the far east.

 _Saphira. New egg. Thorn. Shruikan's unhatched egg_ _. Her own happiness._ _Saphira. Riders. Apprentices. Eggs. Chosen. Saphira. New egg. Friends. New life. New choices. Saphira._

Somewhere in that tumult she managed to keep her mental barriers in check. The egg, no _the dragon inside_ , must've known or felt something or _anything_ when choosing her, yet it had. It had chosen her despite Saphira. Eragon felt guilt. She felt elation. She felt wonder and confusion and- and-

The brunette girl didn't know what she felt.

She slipped inside another room, closing the door behind her and glanced around. It was a rounded room with large windows facing the impressive gardens. The floor was a light beige stone, with a large cream carpet to prevent echoes. The only furniture was a large round table, with an extravagantly decorated bowl of fruit and small unidentifiable snacks deposited on it, surrounded by ten plush, tawny chairs with vibrant pillows the color of green parakeets.

One of the seats were taken, by a small and familiar form. Brom's brown curls were messier than usual, and his eyes glittered with happiness as he stared down at the aquamarine egg in his hands with a wistful smile. She hesitated, if only to see the softness of his features a moment longer. No harsh worry lines. No haunted past. Only young Brom.

The moment didn't last, for he saw her move at the doorway and glanced up. His face split into a delighted grin, holding the egg closer when he jumped up from the chair, as if to prevent it from falling and shattering into a thousand pieces. "Eragon! You're chosen too? This is amazing, isn't it!" None of his previous, silent contentment remained. The epistemophilic couldn't deny that she was thrilled, however.

"Yes, I have," she smiled back, bright, and sunk down into the velvety armchair, marveling at the perky softness. Eragon glanced up at Brom, who had taken to excitedly pacing around the room after nestling his egg into his previous spot, before continuing, "I really hadn't expected it."

"I know exactly how you feel!" He nodded, agreeing, but then his eyes widened and he skipped over to her, grasping her shoulders with an amazed expression on his visage. "It must've been fate," he breathed.

"What?" Eragon blurted out, and Brom stood up straight again with a wide smile back onto his face.

"That we met earlier, of course! Out of everybody, what were the chances of us meeting?" He questioned sunnily before curling up in the chair next to her with the dragon egg is his embrace.

"Close to none," she admitted easily, and held the egg closer. Her mind flashed to Sigrid. Would it be fate if the blonde got chosen as well? No, Eragon didn't believe in fate, but it was nice to think about.

"Did you know, apparently there are five dragon Riders here right now!" He blurted out, and turned is dark eyes to her.

"Oh, really?" She asked, mildly curious. "Have you seen them? Do you know who they are!"

"There was an elf here before, Kialandí I think, who just checked the room for something, but apparently he's on guard duty with someone called Morzan, so he left." Brom started without missing a beat, oblivious to how Eragon was trying to hide that the air had been knocked out of her lungs. "The elf in the big room is a Rider as well, and the girl he was with too. I think her name was Jura. And the elf in that small room before the eggs, he said her name was Formora and that she's an apprentice together with him, Morzan and Jura. Apparently you have to train five years before you become a Rider, and they are starting their third year now! But since I'm so young, that actually makes them three years older than me, instead of only two. It's a bit unfair, I think-"

Brom prattled on, and Eragon thought that Kialandí must be a very informing person for the young apprentice to continue on like that. She could only find distrust for Kialandí, however, despite the fact that he was only a young teen, perhaps only twelve, and very far from becoming a Forsworn. It was nothing in comparison to her blood curdling hatred for Morzan, however, welling up like thick ink in her throat. 

After an elaborate explanation about how amazingly good the small caramel sweets in the smaller bowl were -Eragon tasted and agreed- and Brom gushing over how beautiful his egg was and wondering how his dragon would look like -Eragon told him blue, to which he rolled his eyes and told her " _obviously_ "- they fell into a comfortable silence. Hours passed, during which they emptied the caramels and Brom started worrying about the next person's arrival, thus to make it appear like they hadn't eaten much they filled it with the grapes from the fruit bowl. Occasional small-talk was made, mostly about how training could be or different types of dragons and how their own would look, but it was calm and the only indicator of time was the sun trekking across the azure sky.

Every snack presented seemed to be just as good as the others, so talking wasn't an immediate necessity.

At around two, a young elven boy stepped into the room, with green eyes specked yellow, hair a truce between blond and brown reaching his shoulders, and an egg the color of the oat growing outside Furnost. He gave them a small smile, a little awkward and surprisingly un-elfish, and said, "Hello, I'm Ignothold."

The only thing that came up in Eragon's mind was _The Chronicles of Ignothold_. She offered him a smile in return, and he relaxed noticeably. "I'm Eragon, it's nice to meet you." She wondered how there could be so many ten-year old elves, when in her other life there had only been two. Perhaps something had changed during the Fall?

"I'm Brom," the brunette piped up next to her. "And you should totally try the vanilla biscuits, they're amazing."

As it turned out a good twenty minutes later, Ignothold had been one of the few smart ones to bring a book, and the two boys delved into it like starving sharks. Eragon spent time with her turquoise egg, her mind tentatively reaching out but not daring to go far, afraid of alerting anybody. She wasn't surprised when her efforts were futile. 

At one point, a teenaged elf with sunshine hair framing his angular, golden-tanned features entered, letting his teal eyes skim the room with a slender hand resting on the pommel of his sword, and then left with an amicable nod and a warm, small smile. 

"That was Kialandí, " Brom clarified the second the door closed, and Eragon almost choked on her own spit. He, the sunny-colored elf with alert and cordial eyes, was Kialandí? He was going to become a Forsworn? She held her egg closer, with a bemused smile playing on her soft lips, a crevice in her mind terrified. Anybody could become a Forsworn. Anybody. 

"Are you thinking about a name as well?" Ignothold inquired, glancing at her from above the book, and Eragon hesitated, mind flickering to the new subject as names flickered through her mind.

"Yes," she finally said, because by now it was technically not a lie anymore. "I don't know of the dragon is a boy or a girl, though." 

The elf handed Brom the book, who held it close as he curled up in his armchair with a pleasant, serene smile. Ignothold turned his green eyes to her. "When the dragon hatches, you should be able to communicate with images. You can just think the names to him or her then, and see how the dragon reacts." 

Eragon nodded, though she already knew that part. "It makes sense." 

"I already have a few names for each gender," Ignothold continued, a hint of smugness in his voice, though it quickly died down again. "But it's not like I have a say in what my dragon chooses in the end. It might be something completely different if it rejects every single name until he or she is old enough to communicate with words." 

"They do that?" Eragon questioned, and he nodded mellowly. 

"I've heard it happened once or twice," the elf uttered after a moment of thought. "But I don't think it's very common." 

"Ah," she nodded, and scrutinized the egg through golden eyes that slanted when she narrowed them. "I think it's a girl." 

"Why do you think that?" Ignothold furrowed his brows, and Eragon shrugged. 

"Just a feeling," the Shadeslayer said pensively. "But I could be wrong." 

"Of course you could be wrong," Brom mused dryly, brown eyes never leaving the letters of the borrowed book. "Personally, I have no idea if my dragon is a girl or a boy." 

"None of us have any idea, but I don't think there's anything wrong with guessing," Ignothold argued softly and reached for an oddly shaped fruit, and contemplatively studied it. "I don't particularly mind either gender." 

"Me neither," Brom spoke slowly, turning page and seeming more interested in the book than continuing the conversation. 

"Of course I wouldn't mind if it was a male, I don't really care either, but it's still a feeling, you know?" Eragon chimed, and the elf nodded. 

"Feelings and instincts are good guides in matters like these," he conceded easily, flashing his own egg a smile. "But I'll still think of names for both genders." 

Eragon grinned easily, "Yes, that does seem like a good idea." 

Not much later, lunch was served on extravagant platters, and Brom's jaw dropped. 

* * *

The sinking sun left the sky in bleeding red and royal gold, dark shadows stretching out across the lands like grasping hands, welcoming the rising moon and gradual darkness.

Blankets and covers had been stolen from the chairs and sofas, now littering the ground as makeshift beds. Brom was sprawled across them, in a state of half-sleep as he stared up at the intricate tapestry of the roof. Ignothold was writing down names on a paper he had requested when the unnervingly amicable Kialandí had entered for another checkup, seated on a particularly plush pillow with a duvet over his legs. 

Eragon was curled up in the corner with arrays of scarlet pillows cocooning her back and sides, a blanket curled around her turquoise egg like a nest. She was reading the book Ignothold and Brom had discarded after hours of reading, eyes drooping despite the interesting tale it told. A bit cliché at times -a princess needed to be rescued in the end- but it was acceptable since it was a children's book and surprisingly well-written. 

Obviously, it still didn't like up to her love for _A Distorted Call_ by Whynae Coreidënson, though that book was meant for teenagers and she kept it safely hidden from her parents. It started out rather typically, a main character called Naegyn was in love with one Lady Gainìldr, though it took a darker turn when he became a Shade and forced the Lady to marry him in a quest for more power and obsessive love. 

 _Faerie Lights_ was a lighter read. Just as Eragon was about to read how the princess and prince fought alongside each other to defeat a disfigured monster with a mind twisted by dark magic, the door was tentatively opened and the brunette glanced up at the newcomer. 

The book fell from her hands when Sigrid's pale face was lit up by the warm light of the candles. Her blue eyes were wide with disbelief, arms cradling a white dragon egg so protectively to her chest that had it been any ordinary egg, it would've broken. Eragon was speechless. 

 _'It must've been fate,'_ Brom had whispered. _'Out of everybody, what were the chances of us meeting?'_  

"Sigrid?" Eragon breathed, amber eyes shifting from the parchment-white egg to Sigrid's face and back, and a warm smile spreading across her face. "I'm glad you got Chosen." 

The blonde shifted from one leg to another, nervously eyeing the two other occupants of the room. Brom seemed to be vaguely aware of the new girl, turning his with a sleepy yawn. "Hello," he greeted mellowly, scratching the back of his curly head while blinking slowly. "I hope you don't mind, but we ate almost all the sweets."

For a moment the blonde was silent, and then she shook her head. "I- I don't mind." She assured softly, and if it hadn't been for the egg, Eragon was certain she would've nervously fiddled with the cuffs of her dress.

"Congratulations," Ignothold spoke up, nodding at her when looking up from his paper with mild interest. "It's unusual for two human girls to be Chosen at once."

Sigrid didn't answer, only granting him a wavering smile before gracefully sitting down at the table, and a moment later the elf returned to his paper with renewed inspiration. Eragon wondered if the blonde was a part of the majority of human girls who didn't want to become a dragon Rider, but could only see a twinkle of tender happiness in Sigrid's blue eyes when she stared at the white egg.

"Has dinner been served in the waiting room?" Eragon finally inquired, glancing at the empty plates on the table, the only indication that there had been any warm food. She hoped so, because she didn't think Sigrid would want to eat peaches and pears the rest of the evening.

"Yes," she replied after a moment of inspecting a bowl of cranberries. "A b-bit more than an hour ago, I t-think."

Eragon didn't think she had ever heard the noble girl elaborate this much before, and quirked an eyebrow. "Was it any good? Our food was pretty tasty, though Ignothold didn't like the fact that we ate the chicken." The Shadeslayer jutted her thumb in the direction of the elf when realizing the girl had no idea who he was, and the elven boy glanced up once again with a disdained expression before returning to his notes.

"Our food was fine," Sigrid spoke vaguely, gently running her fingers over the smooth surface of the creamy egg.

"That's good," she voiced, relieved, and placed the book in her lap. "You better think of some names, you're the one who has to name your dragon."

Sigrid's azure stare whipped up to meet her golden one, surprise etched onto her pale features. "R-really?"

Eragon hummed, and had been about to say something weren't it for Brom's soft snores cutting her off. The three who were awake glanced at the brunette, seeing him fast asleep on his pillows. Ignothold pushed the paper away from him with a satisfied smile, bidding them goodnight with a cordial nod.

Eragon retrieved her turquoise egg, and paddled over to Sigrid and sat down next to the blonde noble. "We didn't eat _all_ the sweets," the brunette offered, glancing at a few small bowls that were not completely emptied. "The ones to the right taste like coconut, but we were too full to eat them since we ate an entire bowl of cookies before." She pushed a porcelain tray of white biscuits towards the blonde. "And the small squares in the fancy silver bowl are almond sweets."

Sigrid remained quiet for another moment, eyes flickering over the multitude of small platters, trays and bowls. Finally she tapped her finger against a glass plate with angular cookies displayed. "What... w-what are these?"

"I'm not sure, but they taste like lemons." Eragon shrugged, and despite not being hungry, she stole one and bit of a corner. Sigrid pushed the plate away with a hint of a grimace crossing her face. "You don't like lemon?"

The other girl shook her platinum locks, and turned to a half-empty tray of fruitcake sprinkled with chocolate. The brunette apprentice took another bite of the lemon biscuit, and in the background Ignothold drifted away into dreamland as well.

An hour passed, and Eragon discovered Sigrid's love for fruitcakes thrugh watching the large pieces disappear into her friend's thin form. Conversations were quiet and proceeded at a sedated pace, ranging from a brief discussion about leaving home, to the prospect of learning howe to fly.

"If my d-dragon is a girl," Sigrid suddenly started, "I-I think I'd like to n-name her Gina."

Amber eyes studied the noble girl's slender stature for a moment. "How come?"

There was a brief flash of pain in her azure pools, a tension around her lips that Eragon's trained eyes picked up on despite their subtlety. Then, Sigrid schooled her face again, shyly glancing at the brunette. "After my g-grandmother, she was a w-wonderful person," she hesitated, biting on her plump bottom lip. "She's d-dead, died two years a-ago."

The sweet taste of coconut and sugar didn't taste was good in Eragon's mouth anymore, and she placed the cookie back on the table, turning her whiskey eyes to her friend. "My condolences," she finally uttered. "It's difficult to explain, but I really understand how much pain loosing somebody causes." Eragon knew that in her current life there was no death, but there was so much blood in her past one. She could feel the inquiring stare on her, and shot the girl an apologetic smile that even Brom would've labeled fake. "It's a bit of a long story."

She thought Sigrid would persist and say  _'We've got time'_ , but that didn't happen. "I'll l-listen when you w-want to." There was no pressure, only silent sympathy from both sides. Then- "I-I think the almond biscuits t-taste better than the c-co-coconut ones."

* * *

Eragon was shaken awake by relatively rough hands, and blinked sleepily only to cover them as the harsh sunlight hit her. She fell back down onto the heap of pillows she called a mattress, curling up to shield herself from the light and combed the curly locks away from her face with her fingers. 

"Good morning, sunshine," Jura grinned toothily at the younger girl's disheveled appearance, pushing the brunette down from the soft pillows. Eragon shot up at the sudden motion, staring around her with wide eyes that quickly drooped again, shoulders hunching forwards. 

"What's going on?" She asked through an unladylike yawn, blinking away the drowsiness though failing, head leaning against the wall and welcoming the approaching sleep. It felt like it was mere minutes ago she had been woke up by Sigrid to go to the eggs-

 _The eggs. Turquoise egg. Chosen._  

"It's already time to pack and leave?" Eragon stretched, unable to contain a smile as the older girl nodded. 

The redhead, now clad in a pale, orange-tinted tunic reaching her knees with a black corset on the outside, beige breeches and black boots, was practically glowing. Her fiery red curls, much less tamable than Eragon's, were secured in a messy braid with unruly tresses framing her face. 

"Took you long enough, I've tried for minutes already," Jura complained playfully, taking step back. "I woke you up first, so be happy that the others didn't have to witness that." 

Eragon didn't reply, only watched as the apprentice Rider strolled over to the sofa where Sigrid rested, pale hair spilling over her pillow like a halo. Jura rested a calloused hand on the blonde's shoulders, and the brunette tried not to be disappointed when blue eyes blinked open and Sigrid sluggishly rose to a seated position, looking completely awake and proper. 

"Aren't you well-prepared," Jura commented when Sigrid fished out a comb from a hidden pocket amongst the folds of her skirts, and the blonde only halted her movements for a brief moment before continuing her haircare. The redhead laughed, amicably patting Sigrid on her shoulder. 

Ignothold wasn't as graceful as Sigrid in the morning, though he still seemed to be aware of what was going on and didn't need a good minute to remember the recent events. "I'm up, I'm up," he had muttered waspishly after Jura had attempted to shake him a second time when he hadn't reacted after the first. The elf muttered something very quietly before slipping out of the bed like a slug, staying on the floor for a while before hoisting himself up with the help of the wall. "I'm up, I'm up," he repeated after steadying himself. 

Brom swatted Jura away when she shook his shoulders, brows furrowing as he indignantly turned to his side. It took Jura a good two minutes, and avoiding kicks he had sent in her general direction, before Brom was hurled out of bed. Eragon couldn't quite remember how or when -she was trying to rearrange her hair into a ponytail- but not much later he was up and energetic again. 

Breakfast was eaten on their way through the castle, following Jura's proud form whilst munching on any fruit they had managed to snag with them from the room. She didn't even attempt memorizing the way they took, but instead stared out toward the large gardens they passed. The corridor was wide and light, filled with arched windows facing the gardens like gaping holes. 

And in the gardens, there sat a large, muscular dragon that had to be at least two-hundred years old, with scales glittering such a bright, flashy red that they seemed to be candy or nail polish. It was built more solid than Saphira, with a menacing tail and ram horns, though its stature wasn't as sturdy as Thorn had promised to become in the coming years. 

Brom tripped over his own feet at the sight, but was saved by Ignothold's quick reflexes. 

They turned to the left, and the dragon's ashen stare left them as they disappeared down a set of wide stairs. Portraits of lush landscaped adorned the walls as they descended, and they found themselves in a large, marble room with scarce furniture meant for lunches only. A breeze curled into the room, making the linen curtains flutter and dance in arrays of pale gold and white.

Jura didn't even pause to admire the serene scene, but continued until they found themselves at a grand door facing a spacious porch to the gardens. There was a large table of polished birchwood on a marble veranda, with a crystal glasses and a glass pitcher containing water. Graceful arches and columns supported the high roof, with intricate vines engraved into the white stone.

Beloth the Wise was seated at the far end of the oval table, admiring the five dragons in the gardens with a detached smile. Kialandì was sitting to his left, talking to a human boy his age who had hair the color of a raven's wing, the feathery strands just brushing his shoulders.

The young elf wore boots and breeches, just like the other Riders, though the colors were lighter. He donned a violet tunic, and a sleeveless black vest reaching his knees, with a belt securing it at his hips. The violet of his shirt matched the elegant purple dragon soaring through the air, and Eragon assumed that it must be standard to represent those colors like that for a Rider. Jura's tunic matched the lithe orange dragon dozing nearby.

Formora's dragon was a tawny brown, with stunning copper eyes alertly studying them all, with its Rider leaning against the glittering scales. The elf was clad similarly to Jura, only the color of the tunic differed. Formora offered Eragon a nod when their eyes met.

These were _dragons_. Dragons that were at least as large as Saphira had been. And the bright red one, Beloth's, was about as big as _Shruikan_ \- (Shruikan who never had a choice-)

The fourth dragon caught her eye. It was a darker, garnet red, meaning it had to be Morzan's. She forced herself to study the last person as well. Black boots, ashen breeches, crimson tunic, and black vest worn the same way as Kialandì.

A face looking too much like Murtagh's, yet at the same time not. Pale, sharp features, brows just a tad slimmer than his future son's, a relatively muscular build that Eragon knew could be fast as well. Fighting Murtagh had taught her that. His finger wasn't chopped of yet, since all ten were still there.

Morzan snickered at something his friend said, and then turned to face the four new apprentice Riders with an arrogant curve of his lips. Eragon couldn't keep an open mind as disdain welled up inside of her.


	6. A Flight to Remember

"Welcome," Beloth spoke, eyes crinkling as he smiled cordially. "As much as I'd like to stay and talk, I'm afraid I must tell you that the ride to Doru Araeba is very long, and thus we shall depart in less than an hour."

Sigrid made an odd, choked sound of shock behind her, and Ignothold looked genuinely surprised, eyebrows gracefully arched. Eragon grinned fleetingly, elated and startled at the unexpected announcement. Brom was the first one to fire a question; "What about luggage or any belongings we want to take with us?" 

"Your families have already been informed," Kialandí spoke up, filling his glass with crystalline water. "They've packed any personal belongings they see fit. As for your wardrobe-" his teal gaze wandered scrutinizingly over their dresses. "You'll receive other clothes in Vroengard."

"Do we get to say goodbye?" Eragon asked, remembering her promise to Iander. _'I doubt any egg would hatch for me, so don't worry. I'm afraid you'll have to put up with me for a while longer,'_ she had told him. Assured him that she would stay. Promised that she wouldn't leave. Funny, how she kept breaking the promises she was most serious about. _'Not being able to save Brom, unable to help Murtagh, failing to kill Galbatorix, leaving my little brother-_ '

"Yeah, but don't expect it to be very long," Morzan spoke brusquely. The past-Shadeslayer tried not to glare, and ended up nodding with her gaze firmly planted on the dragons as she clasped her hands behind her back. She didn't think she'd be able not to hurt him otherwise (or, _attempt_ to hurt him; she had no control over her magic and she was currently slow and weak.) He had mismatched eyes, she had noticed during the brief and regrettable eye-contact. One was a deep cobalt, the other was so dark it seemed black. 

"How will we travel?" Brom questioned eagerly. 

"By dragon, of course," smirked Jura, and as if on a cue her orange dragon landed behind her. Brom looked so joyous he might explode, and Ignothold stared at the dragons with an expression of wonder. Sigrid look both terrified and fascinated at the same time. "Now come on, your families are waiting just at the other side of the gardens."

They followed Jura's brisk steps, Brom lagging behind just a brief moment to knock on the pavilion's door thrice before leaving. Eragon glanced at Sigrid, and asked, "Are you scared?"  

"A l-little," came the soft reply. "B-but, I think it'll b-be fine."

The path they took was even and of smooth marble stones, twisting and turning between the colorful flowers and well-kept bushes. A brisk walk later, they found themselves seated in a romanesque pavilion. It was of the same white marble as the pathway, round, and with graceful columns supporting the roof like elegant archways. There were four tables, one for each family, and the Riders had been tactful enough to stay with their dragons after dropping the new apprentices off. 

Eragon slowly sat down in the single free chair at her own family's birchwood table, and Iander mumbled with a cracking voice, face turned away from her; "I haven't cried."

Arina was the first to open her mouth with the full intent to either lecture or smother her daughter, though in the end she kept silent and sniffed, dabbing her eyes with the white handkerchief (now smudged with kohl). Harold seemed to find the linen tablecloth very interesting, and Leneor was staring at her like he was expecting her to suddenly grow a second head. Iander ended up being the one to speak up once again.

"Can I see the egg?" He asked, eyes rimmed red, though the first thing he had told her was that he hadn't cried. Eragon lifted the sea-green egg on the table, gently tracing the smooth vines gracing it with her thumbs. "It's pretty." 

"You'll be home for Summer Solstice, won't you?" Arina finally fastened her whiskey eyes on her, and Eragon hesitated. "I've heard apprentices are allowed a month free every summer." 

The brunette apprentice-Rider had been unaware of that particular fact, but nodded. "If I can, I will." It was a promise she intended to keep. 

"Our house will always open its doors for you, my daughter," Harold finally said, a little gruffly, as though putting too much emotion into his statement would make him follow Arina's example and fight tears. "You can always call Furnost your home, wherever you are." 

"I'll miss you," Iander piped up next to her, ripping his wide eyes from the egg to meet hers. He was crying openly now, and it made Eragon grit her teeth in a similar fashion to her father. "I'll always miss you." 

"Don't forget to brush your hair, or it'll frizzle up atrociously," Arina reminded primly, rather unhelpfully and unnecessarily. "Brush your teeth, drink enough, wash yourself after training, don't forget everything ladylike I've taught you in such a rough place... and, by the gods, write to us  _regularly_." 

"I will, don't worry," she mumbled back, a blush suffusing her cheeks. She glanced at Leneor, expecting some sort of farewell from her brother, and had to wait a few moments before he turned to her with a rueful smile. 

"Don't die," he told her, crossing his arms, his lips thinning. "And don't forget to write." 

"I won't forget," she replied hastily. Leneor didn't look convinced. "Really, I won't." 

She hugged them all goodbye, holding Iander extra long as he cried into her shoulder, and left with the others. Brom's mother, Nelda, had red-rimmed eyes as well, and his father was staring at the table with an unreadable expression. Ignothold's elven family looked proud and tender, a little like her own as they walked out. 

Sigrid's family all sat with straight backs and chins held high. It was like staring at ice states. Cold. Indifferent. Haughty. Sigrid didn't even look back as she walked away, head bent, but Eragon caught a glimpse of tears leaking from her eyes. Those eyes weren't soft and mild; at the moment, they were angry and sad, a whirlwind of snow and fire. Eragon wondered what had happened between her and her family, and for an awful moment, she wondered if they were the reason she was so shy and timid. When looking at them, seeing their scornful stares on her back, she almost believed so.

The blonde quickly wiped her eyes, and then the pavilion disappeared behind large lush trees. Flowers twice as big as Eragon's fist bloomed in fuchsia shades among the light-green leaves. The flowerbeds on the other side of the path were home to paler, pastel-pink flowers sunbathing in the warm light, with occasional dots of white roses growing between the pink. 

Formora was leading them, walking through the gardens with an appreciative smile adorning her features. Kialandí and Morzan were leisurely walking behind them, though the distance was great, as if they couldn't be bothered to catch up. Jura and Beloth were seen in the distance on a field of green grass, where the dragons were waiting as they secured everything they needed to take with them to the saddles. 

"Are you alright?" Eragon asked her friend after a moment, and Sigrid's head shot up at an alarming speed. 

"Yes," she assured with a smile that would've been convincing if it weren't for her watery eyes. The golden eyed girl wished to ask about her family, probe and insist until Sigrid told her everything, but didn't. She had her own secrets. "What a-about you? A-are you n-n-nervous about f-flying?" 

"A bit," Eragon shrugged, not really meaning it, but stared down at her feet for a moment for extra measure. "I'm more excited, though." 

Up close, the dragons were even more majestic. Beloth's candy-red dragon towered above the other ones, its elven Rider seated comfortably in the saddle with an impressive amount of bags secured behind it. Eragon suspected that was everything the families had backed for their children, and wondered what hers had sent with her. 

Brom mumbled something queer under his breath, most likely another habit from Kuasta, and Ignothold gave him an odd stare. Then, the elf furrowed his brows. "We'll be traveling with you?" 

"Yeah, obviously," Jura laughed merrily, emerald eyes twinkling unholily. "We take one extra passenger per dragon!" 

Sigrid stared at Beloth's dragon with an expression betraying that she hoped for that one, but knew it was futile. Eragon was certain she heard Morzan mutter to Kialandí, so quietly she could only hear it because she stood close by and was straining her ears, "I feel like we failed at something. An unimpressive bookworm elf, an odd Kuasta-boy who might be looney, a stutterer who's afraid of her own shadow, and no-name girl who'd be better of getting married in a few years." 

' _A no-name girl who'd be better of getting married in a few years_?' She wanted to punch him, wanted to gut him with the very sword he had secured ta his belt (which she noticed not to be Zar'Roc yet), wanted to avenge Murtagh's ruined childhood. She didn't. ' _I deserve a medal for my patience._ ' 

Kialandí laughed mildly. "Don't give up just yet. If I remember correctly, Hírador said something just as bad about us when we were just Chosen."

Morzan huffed, and when he then spoke she could hear the smirk in his voice. "Don't think I ever forgot. Ironically, half his year-group is dead now. Only him and Galzra left. The two of them'll graduate at the end of this year, right?"

"Yeah," Kialandí was quite for a moment before he continued. "They were courting, weren't they?" 

Eragon had to stop listening then, since Jura motioned for her to come. "Hey, listen, Formora can be a little rough to handle, but she's actually very nice. I don't think it would do Sigrid well to ride with her, though." 

Eragon could see what Jura was hinting at. "And you want to know if it's alright if she goes with you instead of us going together?"

Jura smiled bashfully, a little apologetically even. "Yeah, if you don't mind. Wouldn't want anybody getting scared of riding their own dragon when that time comes."

"That's very thoughtful," the brunette acknowledged, and then nodded with a shrug. "I don't mind." 

The redhead lit up with her signature carefree grin, and mounted her dragon with practiced ease. As Eragon studied Jura on her dragon, she wondered how much education on Riders she had missed herself in her first lifetime. She had only learned about battle, but there was so much more to it. There was so much she didn't know, had never learned because it hadn't been her priority in her own war-torn life. 

Eragon clambered up behind Formora, privately thinking that in the light, the dragon shone like millions of bronze coins. The elf turned around, scrutinizing her position in the saddle to make sure she wouldn't fall off. It took Eragon a moment to realize that she was perched a little too perfectly; she had seated herself like that on habit. 

"What's the dragon's name?" She asked quickly, and Formora snapped her hazel eyes to her. 

"She's called Miremel," she informed her, smirking softly as her slender fingers touched the gleaming scales. Eragon could relate to the unconditional love in the elf's eyes, and wondered how she could ever have become a Forsworn. She was starting to get an uncanny feeling that not getting close to any Forsworn would be difficult; she barely knew any names, and the ones she had met didn't act like bloodthirsty delinquents at all. Even Morzan seemed to be like the typical, arrogant, teenaged boy. 

He was _just_ _a boy_. 

Kialandí was just a boy. 

Formora was just a girl.

Galbatorix was _just_ another Rider. 

Factually, she knew that. Her mind had told her that, but she hadn't understood. Not emotionally, not fully in any sense. They were _innocent_. She hated them but at the same time not _and they hadn't done anything yet_ \--

Eragon was shaken from her thoughts when Miremel spread her gleaming wings, and she tightened her grip on Formora's waist. ' _What matters is what happens now, and not what may or may not happen in five years_.' She relaxed, felt the rush of air around her together with the feeling of being pulled towards the ground, and when she opened her eyes, they were bright and golden. 

The ground was shrinking underneath them, copper strands that had escaped the rider's loose bun whipped in her face, and Eragon felt pure contentment tinging her excitement. "This is amazing!" She hollered through the wind, and Formora glanced back with a pleased grin. 

"I know!" The amusement dripped of the elf's words, but it didn't matter. 

Minutes passed like that. Beloth and his dragon, Maïnjir, had taken the lead, flying ahead like a massive moving painting of bright red. Ilirea was soon behind them, the only thing of it one could see if looking back were the white spires glinting in the sunlight, and the humongous castle. 

Next to her, Morzan's dark sangria-red dragon flew through the air, the apprentice-Rider's black hair whipping around his face, with Brom behind him. At first Eragon was wary and kept an eye on the pair, but when she realized she had practically been waiting for the teenaged boy to throw her friend of, she had stopped. 

Behind them, Kialandí flew with Ignothold and Jura with Sigrid, who didn't look quite as ashen as everybody had expected. If anything, she seemed rather amazed as she stared down at the forests below, where rivers cut between the dark masses like blue snakes all heading towards the same lake, which could be glimpsed to the far right. 

The wind nipped at the brunette's rosy cheeks, the sun warming her back. To the east she could glimpse stony mesas jutting up from grassy fields, and to the west rolling hills and lush trees greeted her eyes. The gentle landscapes behind her, to the south, hid the Hadarac dessert. North, right in front of her, was made up of even wilder forests than the ones underneath them, glittering lakes, and occasional villages or towns.

"What are the other dragons' names?" Eragon asked as they sped ahead an hour later. 

"Kialandí's is called Normuigr," she started, and Eragon repeated the name in her head. "Jura's is Adrehin, and Morzan's is Katashi."

"Katashi is a very unusual name," mumbled the brunette after a few moments of processing. _Miremel, Maïnjir, Normuigr, Adrehin, Katashi._   _Miremel, Maïnjir, Normuigr, Adrehin, Katashi._

"Yeah, apparently he got the name from a tale from the far East." Formora acknowledged, hazel eyes skimming across her black-haired friend flying next to her. The new-apprentice hoped she'd tell the tale, but ended up being disappointed. 

Hours passed. Eragon was starting to fear she was getting blisters on her butt and the insides of her thighs; Formora wasn't one against a sudden delve to enjoy the rush of air, and Eragon wasn't used to flying anymore. It made her fear that all she had almost taken for granted before, magic and knowledge of dragons above all, could be very different and would need to be trained from _scratch_ again. 

Eventually, the dragons circled down and landed in a small clearing near a couple of rocks and boulders building a makeshift cave. Small, wild, white flowers smelling strongly of almonds and citrus grew between the patches of moss on the stones and among the grass on the ground. The sky was darkening with streaks of orange towards west, the sun a yellow ball casting golden light as it sunk behind the tops of the pines and firs. 

Eragon smiled ruefully. _Back to camping_. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, mostly a filler, really... I know, I know, it's an incredibly short chapter and the wait has been long... But in the next chapter they'll arrive in Vroengard, so hopefully that'll make it up to you!


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